


Sherlock Ficlets

by CatieBrie



Series: Tumblr Ficlet series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Adlock, Alley Sex, Angst, Chemical Experiment Gone Wrong, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gay Bar, Gen, Hot Sticky Floor Sex, Kidlock, Lots of Angst, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, More angst, More punklock, POV Sholto, Potterlock, Pre-Reichenbach, Punklock, Reichenbach Feels, Rimming, Unilock, Unrequited Love, more post-reichenbach, more unilock, next not related to sex tags, sign of three, tags in order of ficlets posted, wedding angst, well right actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:33:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatieBrie/pseuds/CatieBrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Sherlock ficlets I've written on tumblr. Various pairings themes and ratings</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Wunna Take You to a Gay Bar

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning of each chapter I'll give the rating and gist of each ficlet so you know what you're getting into
> 
> Prompt: The missing gay bar scene?! (Tho perhaps not as John's stag night bc infidelity is a no) Mayyybe some random dude starts making out with Sherlock and the detective is so confused and John goes all macho like "WHOA WHOA WHOA WHAT IS THIS UH-UH I DONT THINK SO THIS HERE PRETTY MAN IS *MY* PRETTY MAN"
> 
> Johnlock Rated T

Sherlock dragged John to a bar and didn’t bother to tell him what kind it was.  No explanation (“Is it for a case? Sherlock, hey Sherlock! Answer me!”), just a “we’re going out, John,” and that was that. 

John didn’t want to be here.  The place was loud and crowded and he was just too old.  And even if he wasn’t, the women here were, well, interested in other women.  Which was fine, mind you, but he hadn’t been with a man in so long and, anyway, he really wasn’t up to flirting with strangers tonight.  So instead, he sat at the bar nursing his second pint and doing his best to look like a thoroughly unapproachable bloke while he watched over Sherlock.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked to be having a grand old time on the dance floor.  Which surprised John, to be honest.  He never took his flatmate to be the dancing type, but there Sherlock was–beautiful and lithe and gathering the eye of every man around him. It was a wonder that no one had swooped in to claim him. 

John downed his beer and sighed.  That was the real reason he didn’t want to pull anyone–stupid Sherlock was all he could think about and it had been that way for weeks.  If John didn’t think Sherlock was fully tethered to his work, he would have at least tried to flirt but that was out of the question.  He ordered another beer.

When John turned around, Sherlock wasn’t in the same spot. John froze, suddenly alert and wary, eyes trained on the undulating mass of bodies for his friend.  It wasn’t until his second pass over that he caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s back and something in his posture set John on edge.  He was talking to a man of the same height but with broader shoulders and a leering smile.  John stood from his seat and approached, hand gripped tight around the mug forgotten there.

John was only partway through the crowd before the man tugged Sherlock close and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.  Sherlock struggled, obviously caught off guard and John was suddenly livid.

“Oi!” John’s bellow was enough to startle the man, but his hold on Sherlock didn’t loosen.  “Get off of him.”

The crowd, sensing danger, parted but the man just sneered down at John. He was bulky, obviously worked out, maybe even did a bit of boxing in his spare time, and that made him arrogant when facing a smaller opponent. “Don’t think I will.  Saw ‘im first and he likes it, don’t you sweetheart?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said, voice disdainful, which was really not very intelligent on his part. Leave it to Sherlock to make a situation worse. John saw the man tense, anger flashing across blunt features. 

“Let him go.“  John said calm-as-you-please, but the man was rearing up for a fight.  “Or don’t, that’s your choice.  But I warned you.”

“Piss off.“  John didn’t wait for him to finish. As the man yanked on Sherlock, John threw the contents of his mug at his face, causing him to sputter and let go of his captive.  Sherlock–instead of moving away like John had hoped–drove his knee into the man’s groin, face split into a manic grin as the man dropped to his knees with a groan. 

“Well then,” John said, taken aback.  Sherlock drove his toe his felled assailant before looking up at John, eyes dancing and pupils blown a bit wide. “That showed him.”

“Mmhm.”

“Should we…um, leave?” The crowd around them lost interest and turned away, no one going to aid the man groaning on the ground.

“Probably for the best.  Bar security is headed this way, but first–” Sherlock stepped in close to John and grabbed the edges of his coat pulling him into a messy, beer-flavored kiss.  John just about melted on the spot, heat flaring into the pit of his stomach. “–a thank you.”

John grinned and, grabbing Sherlock’s hand, they ran, slipping out the back before security could get to them.

 


	2. Chemical Sexscapades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus Sherlock, what did you do?!“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Johnlock! "Chemical experiment gone awry terminates in sexscapades" is the prompt I'd like to slide under your door.
> 
> Johnlock; rated M

“Jesus Sherlock, what did you do?!“ 

Sherlock looks up from his supine position on the couch and does his best to keep a straight face.  John, for his part, has stomped down the stairs in true dramatic fashion, but the effect is quite ruined by his lack of clothes.  This fact would be enough to fill Sherlock with joy, he does so love the compact lines of his lover and they stand out stark from where he’s glaring by the coffee table, but Sherlock is distracted by something else. 

” _Sherlock!“_

 _”_ Hush John, I’m thinking.“

“I don’t care, you prat, where are my clothes?"  John looks fierce now, brow down in true Captain’s ire.   Then, he seems to have noticed Sherlock’s state of undress as well and the storm cloud shifts to confusion.  "For that matter, where are your clothes?”

“They are in 221C at the moment, but I do not suggest gathering them up just yet."  Sherlock says turning so that he can really appreciate John’s nakedness.  "I have an experiment going and I’d hate for it to get lodged in the cloth.”

“Oh for the love of-- What kind of experiment?  And what do you think the drapes or the rug is made of?”

“Those do not leave the flat, but you and I do.”

“So I’m stuck in the flat starkers until whatever mad–"  John doesn’t get to finish as a loud bang rattles the flat.  "What in the bloody hell was that?”

“I probably should have gotten masks,” Sherlock muses as a pink gaseous cloud creeps into the living space from the kitchen.  John is staring at the approaching mass, horror apparent on his face. 

“Sherlock?”

“Oh, don’t worry John.  It’s not poisonous.”  _I think_. John doesn’t look reassured. 

“Then what is it?”

“I was experimenting on known aphrodisiacs in an attempt to make something of a love potion.”

John groans. “Why?”

“Bored.”

“Of course."  By this time the cloud has reached them.  John tries to hold his breath but Sherlock, certain he is not about to die, inhales deeply and finds himself experiencing the effects before John.

And by effects, he really just has a raging stiffy and too hot skin and John is way too far away with his perfect cock and cute stomach and clever hands. Sherlock may have underestimated the potency of this particular experiment but that hardly matters when John has now taken his first breath and god, those eyes have turned black and John really does have a gorgeous, massive prick.  Sherlock’s mouth waters. 

"John. Here. Now.”

But John is already moving and has Sherlock pinned beneath him before Sherlock can even take another breath and goodness, he’s going to be in so much trouble when his experiment finally dissipates but right now he can’t be arsed to care.

Right now he’s going to enjoy his miscalculations and…and… _oh._


	3. Hit Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had met at a concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted: Smutty Punklock
> 
> Johnlock; rated M

They had met at a concert.

Both adept at playing an instrument, but neither of them playing; John there to enjoy the music, Sherlock there to critique it.

“Those are mates of mine, you know.” John said as he caught on to some of the vitriol dripping from Sherlock’s lips. They were shite though, he’d admit.

“Poor choice of friends then.”  

John squinted at the kid, wondering if he should take a swing for the insult. He had such a pretty face, eyes bright through lined lids, cheekbones sharp as ice shards. Pale as anything John had ever seen.

“Too pretty.” He shrugged, and turned back to his beer.

“What?”

“Too pretty,” John repeated, not looking over. “To hit, that is.”

“What makes you think you could land a blow?” The kid–okay, that was uncharitable, he had to be just shy of John’s own twenty-something–said. He was smirking, lips pulled up in an undeniable challenge.

John raked him up and down with heavy lidded eyes and smiled.

“You don’t actually want a fight, do you?”

“No.”

“And you’re right, they’re shite tonight.”

“Mmhm.”

“The name’s John.” John stuck out his hand and the other grasped it in his much larger palm. A firm shake, a lingering touch.

“Sherlock. I’ll meet you out back in five.” Sherlock spun on his heel and sauntered away, giving John a nice view of a leather clad arse.

“Well, damn.” John chugged the rest of his beer and followed.

–

Sherlock was leaned against the crumbling brick of the venue’s back wall with a cigarette smoking between his lips when John wandered out.

“Took you long enough.”

“It’s a bloody wall of people in there,” John said and claimed a piece of wall for himself. Sherlock offered him the cigarette and John declined. Sherlock shrugged, took a pull and tossed the butt at a puddle, the lit end hissing out angrily. A moment of silence, John scuffed his boot in the alley-way muck, Sherlock shifted.

Then Sherlock moved and John was not prepared to find himself boxed in against the wall, Sherlock’s leg insinuated between his and hands framing John’s face. Yet that’s where he stood, one breath between tranquility and trapped. Heat pooled at the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, you’re quick.”  John rolled his hip against Sherlock’s thigh. “Maybe I wouldn’t have landed a blow.”

“Not a chance.” Sherlock was close, lips ghosting across John’s as he spoke. He lingered like that a moment, breathing John in until John slammed forward, lips crushing up into Sherlock’s hard enough he could feel the ridge of teeth on the other side. Sherlock opened his mouth to John’s almost immediately, a quick tang of blood flooding between them before John tasted tobacco and cheap liquor and something beneath it all like pine needles as Sherlock’s tongue met his; rough and hot and a little bit clumsy.

John could feel the rough of brick digging into his back as Sherlock pressed in closer, thigh undulating against John’s cock in controlled movements that had John gasping and tugging at Sherlock’s jacket to get him just a bit closer.

Sherlock stayed rooted just far enough away to drive John mad and so he shoved his hands down between them and tugged at the two buttons of Sherlock’s leather trousers and popped them open before Sherlock could take control again.

Sherlock broke the kiss with a gasp, lips delightfully puffy and red, cheeks brightly flushed.

“You’re impatient.”

“We’re in public.” John pulled the zip down and ran his fingers over the vee of fabric and hard flesh revealed. Sherlock groaned.

“Ah, good point.” Sherlock tugged his cock out as far as he could without completely dropping his trousers and made quick work of the denims hugging John’s hips.  With John’s cock free, he used the span of his fingers to wrap about them both and  _oh christ his hands are huge!_  John growled, rolling up into the loose grip, the cap of his glans catching and bumping against Sherlock’s.

Hot flesh flush against hot flesh, friction just this side of painful, rutting against each other within the cage of Sherlock’s long fingers–it was enough to drag every expletive in John’s rather expansive lexicon from his mouth in a long, quiet stream. Sherlock chuckled between heavy breaths, dropping his head to John’s shoulder as their pace stuttered out of sync and their movements jerky.

Sherlock climaxed first, spunk splashing against John’s shirt and soaking between Sherlock’s fingers, adding slick where there had been mostly friction. John gave an aborted moan, hands flying behind him to grip at the wall for balance.

“Oh christ, oh shit.” He wasn’t even aware of the words tilting off his tongue until they fell in the open and even then, he couldn’t care less–the sudden change in sensation was too much. It curled his toes and clawed his fingers and pushed him over the edge.

Cum burbled thickly over Sherlock’s hand, coating them completely and dripping down the sides. John slumped, breathing heavily and Sherlock followed him down, head still resting on John’s shoulder.

“Oh, that was…” John tried to say but his words stuttered out on a pant.

“Nice,” Sherlock supplied, a smile in his voice.

“Yeah.” John started giggling.  “Yeah it was.”

Sherlock straightened up but kept his proximity.  “Reach into my back pocket, there should be a napkin of some sort.”  John did and they used the cloth to clean themselves as best they could.

When pants and trousers were mostly settled where they should be, Sherlock stole a kiss, hand going to John’s hip, fingers slipping into the pocket there.

“I’m in need of a flatmate,” Sherlock said, voice husky in John’s ear. He nipped around the hoops in the lobe there before withdrawing. “My number’s in your pocket if you’re interested.”

And then he left, turning smoothly on one heel and all but sauntering out the alleyway; his arse really was a wonderful thing to watch when he moved.

John fingered the card in his pocket and smiled.


	4. Bank Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wouldn’t mind eating out that pert little arse of yours, for starters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted: smutty punklock
> 
> Johnlock; rated M

They’ve been together awhile, holed up in an old flat turning yellow from cigarette smoke and weird experiments gone to seed.

Days like this when the sun shines right through the open window and the fans can’t dissipate the heat, they’d seem like hell to the average person.

John and Sherlock have always been anything but average.

Papers flutter as a breeze saunters in, lazy breaths of air that do little more than dishevel an already disheveled landscape. It’s the kind of breeze that feels like a winter kiss, not quite cold, but a shock against hot skin.

“Ahhh, that feels good.” John is lying on the ground, arms spread out against the carpet. He’s shirtless and just a bit shiny with sweat. Tattoos bend and distort with every slow breath he pulls in and pushes out.

“We could turn on the A/C.” Sherlock has stripped down further than John, his long legs pointy and pale and bare. He has them crossed and he all but looms over his partner, overgrown flop of hair resting heavily across one eye, sweat beading like dew in the shaved hairs along the other side of his scalp.

They painted a messy watercolor picture of summer irritation and laziness.

“Too expensive, luv.”

“The landlady would hardly care—”

“We bother that poor woman enough. Look at the state of the walls, yeah? And the plumbing was a nightmare after last week’s experiment.”

“I’m bored, John!”

John smirks, turning his head just enough to catch Sherlock’s sulking expression. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really.”

“We need to do something about that, then.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, appreciative of the mischief he sees in John’s eyes.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Wouldn’t mind eating out that pert little arse of yours, for starters.”  John says it so calmly that Sherlock doesn’t quite register the words at first. When he does, it’s like lava has settled at the pit of his stomach; thick and hot arousal starting to prod his cock to life.

“And then?”  Sherlock’s voice has dropped an octave and it scratches against the back of his throat. Unfolding his legs he crawls over John, hands and knees boxing him in. John grins up at him, eyes shining.

“First give us a kiss.” John knocks at Sherlock’s knees and pulls him down so that Sherlock’s face is inches from his own. Sherlock presses his lips to John’s and immediately tastes sweat and tea as John opens up to him. It’s lazy and slow and does nothing to dissuade Sherlock’s burgeoning erection. He rocks against John’s hip, dragging his cock along the side of John’s and John bites at his lip, deepening the kiss in response, blunt nails scraping down Sherlock’s back.

John pulls back. “Turn around, luv.”

Sherlock does, nearly knocking John in the face with a pointed knee. With Sherlock settled, John takes a moment to run his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, fingers running through sparse, dark hairs. Sherlock squirms.

“I like this.” John says as he smooths a hand down Sherlock’s left flank. The skin is still a bit tender there, ink bright and fresh, painted in the same honeycomb pattern as the tattoo that covers his right shoulder and the side of his neck. “The design suits you.”

“What suits me right now is your face in my arse.” Sherlock says, hiding his pleasure with brash gruff.

John laughs and tugs down Sherlock’s pants until the material has Sherlock’s knees pressed tight to John’s chest. John grabs Sherlock’s arsecheeks and pulls them apart, swiping his tongue from perineum to arsehole in one long swath. Sherlock gasps and nearly loses his balance.

“Mm, you taste good. Like summer.” John circles Sherlock’s opening, pointing his tongue to dip just a bit past the muscle before smoothing over the area with open-mouthed kisses.

“You mean sweat?” Sherlock gasps when John bites the flesh of his left arsecheek. Sherlock drops to his elbows to get closer to John’s mouth, face resting on the swell of John’s clothed cock.

“I know you’re multitalented,” John says and rolls his hips up towards Sherlock’s face encouragingly, fabric brushing rough and warm against his cheek. Sherlock scrambles back up so that he can undo John’s fly, going from one elbow to the other to work both John’s jeans and pants down his hips. Freed, his cock bounces with a dull smack against John’s stomach, the heft of it keeping it nearly pressed to the muscle of John’s abdomen. A sticky line of precum creates a bridge between the hairs of John’s happy trail and the head of his cock. Sherlock dips down and slides the glans past his lips, tongue tasting the sweat and arousal gathered there before trying to take more in.

It’s hard with John eating him out like he’s a starved man.

Sherlock gags about halfway down, angle odd for this particular act, so he goes for skill over depth, keeping cheeks hollow and turning his head with each bob. He tongues at the foreskin before trailing the vein, pulse throbbing against him.

John shifts down a bit, moving so that he can lap and suck on Sherlock’s bollocks, hands now free. He uses one to keep Sherlock balanced and the other to wrap around Sherlock’s cock, now so hard it aches. John tugs away from his face, elbows brushing and pushing at Sherlock’s thighs with each movement, but Sherlock doesn’t care. He can feel his paroxysm building at the base of his spine, pressure and pleasure coursing on an electrical line stirred to life by John’s hands.

Sherlock sucks in earnest, mouth stretching painfully as he moves up and down in an erratic pace, saliva soaking the thatch of pubic hair below his nose, and trailing down his chin as he gags and bobs; his arms barely keep him up and he’s slipping off every other incline in his haste, but he can’t concentrate past the strokes of John’s hand to implement finesse.

So when John comes, it’s just as messy, some of it actually coming out of Sherlock’s nose before he can pull off gagging.

“Shite, Sherlock.”  John sounds apologetic and amused and above all else wrecked and he squeezes Sherlock’s cock just a little too hard and–

Sherlock’s paroxysm hits him like a blow, dragging out a strangled cry. He pulses in thick ropes, spunk splashing his stomach and chin and dripping onto John beneath him. He feels warm and slick with sweat, arms about to give out as he gingerly crawls over John and collapses to the floor.

Heat from the summer day settles over them like a blanket and they lie like that for long moments, catching their breath.

“Still bored?”  John manages eventually.

Far from it, Sherlock thinks but because he wants to see what will happen: “yes.”

John sits up on his elbows and looks down the length of his body to Sherlock.

“Oh, really?”

Sherlock shivers despite the heat. “Yes, really.”

“Then let’s see what I can do about that.” And John’s smirk is nothing short of devious.


	5. Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They sat cross legged in a thicket of trees. One boy and one girl bent close in conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted: two brilliant ten-year-old soulmates talking under the trees as though they are kid Snape and kid Lily Evans, but they turn out to be kid Sherlock and kid Irene Adler.“ I went back and read that scene and did my best to match up the language between Snape and LIly with Sherlock and Irene. 
> 
> I suppose it's more gen than Adlock; rated G

They sat cross legged in a thicket of trees. One boy and one girl bent close in conversation. They were of the same age: nearing ten or having just turned. Through the trunks a river glistened and shone in the late afternoon sunlight. The leaves, lush and green and almost too thick to let light through, filtered the sun into a lattice work of cool green shade.  Bugs hummed lazily in the back ground.

“…and Grandmere says only the smartest kids get in!’ The boy said excitedly. His hair, thick with curls bounced as he gesticulated outward with no real purpose.  

“But I like going to school  _here_ , in London.” The girl said and then smirked mischievously. “I’ve got control of my class—I even get to make some of the lesson plans!”

“That’s  _boring_.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” The way he turned his head to the side, lips down in a pout gave away the lie.

“You are! They’d never let you be in charge of anything after you blew up the science room.” 

“It wasn’tt my fault!”

“It so was.”  The girl laughed and the boy nearly smiled through his sulk. 

There was a little silence. The boy picked up a branch and drug it through the grass, delighting in the way the half light caught and shone on the dew gathered there.  The sun had not fully reached their little hiding spot and even though it was late afternoon it was wet and new like the break of dawn around them

“Sherlock?” The boy, Sherlock, looked up from the grass. “You’re brilliant, you know.  Even if the teachers don’t see it yet.”

“They’re all dumb anyway,” Sherlock groused but it was obvious he was pleased by her comment.

“Are you really going to leave?”

“Yeah, I think so.” 

“How are things at home?”  Sherlock frowned and started playing with the grass again.  

“Fine.”

“No more arguing?” 

“Oh, they’re still doing that, but Mycroft’s home and they’re trying to be civil. He’s the one who suggested I go to France and live with Grandmere.” He started ripping the grass up in handfuls.  “I wish you’d apply.”

“I know, but we’ll write each other, right?”  She gave him a hopeful smile.  “Everyone is so dull here, I’ll have no one to talk to when you’re gone.”

“I don’t know, I might be too busy.”

“ _Sherlock_!” She grabbed a stick and threw it at him.

“Hey!”

“Tell me you will write!” She searched around for another stick.

“Okay, okay! I’ll write!” He had his hands up to protect his face. 

“You better.”  Her words were thick and her eyes had begun to swim and shine with tears. She quickly wiped them away before Sherlock could see.

He noticed anyways.

“Are you crying?”

“No!” She threw a second stick and Sherlock yelped and ducked out of the way. “Of course not!”

“You are!” 

“Oh you’re awful, Sherlock. I won’t miss you at all.”

“I know,” Sherlock said and his own voice wavered just a bit. “I won’t miss you either, Irene.”

They glared at each other before breaking out into tearful laughter.


	6. Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reichen-Feels John-centric rated T

The first day John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed.  It still smells of him and in the embrace of silken sheets and soft pillows, John can imagine he’s there–if only for a bit.

After the first week, the smell is gone and the bed is no longer a comfort.  It’s rumpled and heartless and nothing more than what it was ever meant to be.  John wishes it farewell and closes the door behind him, never expecting to open it again.

After a month, the flat is dusty and haunted and Sherlock sits on the couch, follows him to the kitchen, to his room.  Sometimes John talks to him, spilling out every trapped word he’d kept beneath his breast bone.  Sometimes he’s silent and tries to imagine what would be if he’d said those words long ago.

After a year he can’t even remember his home.  The memories that ate him alive before are caged away, and now he’s the spirit haunting London.  He goes to work, he goes to the pub, he goes home.  He remembers none of it.  The color is gone from his life and each day feels borrowed.

Halfway to two years and the days start feeling more and more real and his time less and less borrowed.  He meets someone that feels warm and while she can’t fill the cracks still shifting and eroding in his bones, she holds him together just a bit more than yesterday.  He still can’t remember his days, but he does experience his nows a little more clearly.

After two years he thinks it’s okay to buy a ring.  It’s modest but it glimmers and reminds him that someone loves him even if he doesn’t know if he loves her. He doesn’t know if he can ever love again but at least he can care and at least there’s something warm and colorful for him after so many days and weeks and months of nothing.

After two years he smiles at her with affection and she smiles back sharp and and bright.  He thinks he can be content with this.

After two years he thinks he can move on and make a new life. 

After two years that all doesn’t matter because he is staring into the eyes of a ghost and remembering what real color looks like and what real anger feels like and the warmth he thought he’d felt is cool in comparison to what now burns his cheeks and stomach and skin.

“…Not dead.”


	7. Until Death Do Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From what little interaction James Sholto has had with John and his merry band of friends, he has come to the conclusion that John is just as stupidly stubborn now as he was back in the army. It broke his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted: “Sholto’s perspective on Sherlock’s best man speech (johnlock- and/or jolto-centric)“
> 
> Sholto-centric with past Jolto and present unrequited Johnlock:

From what little interaction James Sholto has had with John and his merry band of friends, he has come to the conclusion that John is just as stupidly stubborn now as he was back in the army.  It broke his heart.

It is very obvious to Sholto, even from his little table at the back of the room, that John and Sherlock are very much in love.  John’s eyes are fond as he listens to Sherlock’s speech, and it’s obvious he wants to be even closer to Sherlock than his own newly minted wife.

He has to give it to Mary though, she sees it too. From the way she smiles at the both of them with a quiet, sad fondness he knows she has to knows. She has to know her husband’s in love with more than her.

Well John’s not a complete idiot then.  He’s found a good match even if he settled on the safest path.

“I am dismissive of the virtuous …“

_John smiled sadly at Sholto, the kind of smile he reserved for bad news and hopeless situations.  “We have to stop.”_

_Sholto stomach dropped even though he knew this day would come eventually. “Why?”_

_“I want start a family when I finish here. I want a wife and kids and a house in the country.”_

_Sholto laughed, a low and truly amused rumble.  “No you don’t.  You will drive yourself mad with boredom.”_  
  
“I don’t think so.”  He sounded uncertain but they never met in secret places after that.  


“… unaware of the beautiful …“

 _John would never be called beautiful but his gold hair and tan skin against sunlit sand was damn near close. He squinted at Sholto, sunglasses forgotten in his hand as he tried to read his commanding officer.  Sholto smiled._  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.”

“…and uncomprehending in the face of the happy.“

_“Captain Watson’s been shot, sir.”_

_The world tilted sideways for a moment and Sholto just stared, uncomprehending.  After one, two, three long inhales he found his voice. “And?”_

_“He’s alive but in critical condition, sir.”_

_Sholto listened to the soldier continue on. He was a friend of John’s and had heard the news from someone who had actually been there.  Sholto dismissed him and sat in silence for as long as he was able._  
  
When he heard that John’s wound had become infected and he’d be flown back home to be treated, Sholto mourned.  He knew if John survived his injury he’d be discharged from the army and he’d never adjust to civilian life. He’d die of boredom one way or another.

“So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend.“

Sholto never expected to see John again.  He’d thought John would have gotten married quietly or he’d have succumbed to boredom and alcohol and died silently that way.  Instead, he received a cream colored invitation years after he ever thought possible and he’s now watching another man profess his love in the fragile facade of a best man speech.

“Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.“

John’s eyes are glassy when he stands to hug Sherlock and there’s a deeper love there than best friends.  It’s not until Sherlock starts the stories of his and John’s time together that Sholto realizes why John is still here and alive and not at all a shell of the man he used to be.

He found the war again.  He found it in this weird, offensive bloke and he’s now giving it away for the ideal of a domestic life.  Sholto feels sad watching that happen.

_You poor sod._


	8. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll say it then, those three words. He promises he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-reichenbach angst; rated G I think

He rubs his thumb across the phone, a mimic of the caress he wishes he could slide across the stubble of John’s chin. Not now, maybe not ever.

“This phone call, it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

_“Leave a note when?”_

Such a sentimental, blind idiot. Sherlock will miss it. He’ll miss his light.

“Good bye, John.”  _I love you._

_“No. Don’t–!”_

Sherlock steps out into air. Hell awaits him, but if he’s lucky maybe John will too and Sherlock’ll survive to see him again. He’ll say it then, those three words. He promises he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next ficlet is a continuation


	9. Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock never accounted for the fact that John could have moved on during his absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the past ficlet
> 
> Sherlock--unrequited Johnlock; rated G or maybe T??

Sherlock never accounted for the fact that John could have moved on during his absence.  Sherlock certainly hasn’t.

No, Sherlock had spent years alone with the memory of wire and silk hair, stupid jumpers and sharp blue eyes; the taste of tea and the slow sound of words being pecked out two-fingered with painful care painted his mind in the colors of comfort he would not find in his hell outside of London.

Coming home he thought he’d have left that hell behind but instead he walked right out of the damn frying pan convinced he was saved and boy did he get burned for that sentimental hope.

Now Sherlock sits at the fire in an empty flat with and empty glass stinking of juniper and rubbing alcohol and he folds back into the memories of the  _tap tap tap_ of keys and warm-honey-home taste of tea, imagining that he could pick up where they left off dancing around the prospect of something so beyond friends and flatmates and fair-weather lovers.

In his little palace stuffed full of memories and facts all categorized and placed in rooms with neat labels and cool colors, he stands in the only one with any heat.  The one that has his clay-furred childhood friend curled at the fire while he dances with his soldier, his doctor, his compass across the threadbare carpet, legs shifting and stepping in perfect disharmony. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.  Their bodies are close and hot and melted like old wax, slumped into each other with contentment and safety and all the other things that make people write terrible poems and sing warbling songs beneath a back-lit window.

Here Sherlock remembers to say  _I love you_.

Here he hears it back.

Outside the world moves on and he will correct purple to lilac and fold the Sydney Opera House out of cotton.

But inside, inside he can pretend he remembered.  He can pretend things are fine, that he didn’t miss his chance.  Inside, it’s his name on heavy paper beside his doctor and not on the placard reading  _best man_.

Yes, inside everything moves like the smoothest brandy through his veins, flowing in bright curls and he dips his partner and he kisses him and he warms him on the couch with long fingers and deft tongue and he remembers to say I love you over and over and over again because he will never ever say it outside.

He lost that chance and John moved on.

_I love you. I miss you. I want you._

_Good bye._


	10. Calluses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John digs his fingers in close, feels a pulse and his brain sings: he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More unrequited Johnlock
> 
> Rated T

John digs his fingers in close, feels a pulse and his brain sings: he’s alive, he’s alive,  _he’s alive_.

They don’t touch after that, not for a long while. That’s fine, that’s good. John needs the time to let his fingers cool and heal against the burn etched into the lines and whorls of their prints. 

Sherlock’s skin has always been silk and fire; genius and wit clashing like flint to tinder, brightening every bone, turning blood to molten orange.

_They ran, hands clasped together; breath escaped in shorts bursts, painful pants and sighs as their feet beat, beat, beat in time with their hearts. John was only aware of one large palm, smooth and burning against his own. He felt nothing else._

Sherlock’s hands as they dance are no longer smooth. Certainly they remain so in odd places, but violin calluses no longer stand alone as they once had. At the base of each finger, John feels something rough, something peeling, something wholly not Sherlock as John knew Sherlock to be.

John recognizes a few as ones still present on his own fingers, squeezed and compressed into the flesh, growing larger with each life extinguished; _flash, bang_  and their world goes black as John’s grows more scarred.

They spin, feet sweeping and stumbling and gliding and fumbling and John has trouble not stopping it all to examine.

He needs to examine the life lines and joints and flesh now hard where it had once been soft and there’s this sad knowing in his chest that somewhere Sherlock still hides the worst of it and John might never, ever see.

Yet he still puts out his hand and follows along with each step that Sherlock guides him through.  He steps on expensive shoes knowing that will gain him five more minutes; he drops Sherlock knowing that’s another fifteen.

“You cannot drop your wife like that,” Sherlock says, laughing when John pulls him from the ground.  “Again.”

John just wants their fingers to linger together so that he can feel the new ridges and mounds.  He just wants to know.

“Fine, again.”  His hands clench as he smiles and Sherlock’s grips back.  Sherlock smiles too but his eyes tell the same story.

_We’re too late._

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like you can find me on [Tumblr](http://catie-brie.tumblr.com/) where I would love to answer questions, comments, chats or just have you as a friendly stalker. It's also where I periodically post about fanfic I am working on.
> 
> Kudos and comments, as always, are greatly appreciated.


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